What I Did On My Summer Vacation: MERAK

Merak, as seen from Gangu

It is hard to believe I was really in Merak, that it actually exists, that a nomadic group of Tibeto-Burman people, the Brokpa, who do not dress or look like other Bhutanese still manage to thrive and maintain their ways of living.  Hand made houses built of dry stonework, mostly tiny single story, one room dwellings, are stacked up the mountainside. These houses do not have the traditional Bhutanese windows, decorative painting and cornices, elevated roofs, open attics or first floor paddocks.  There are no chimneys except in the rare homes with Bukharis--most people vent their cooking fires through a small triangular hole built into the wall.  Smoke also escapes through the cracks between the bricks, a very inefficient and COLD solution. The paths between the houses are narrow and rocky--and muddy in the summer. Livestock--the pack horses that travel to Tashigang for supplies and the yaks and dzhos that provide milk for cheese and butter and hair for clothes--wander the paths and graze lazily wherever they can find forage.  

Going to school in Merak. There is only a primary school--once kids complete
6th grade, they go to a boarding school in Phongmey.

A pack-yak outside a Merak home

Merak roofs

The Brokpa people are stocky compared to other Bhutanese and are inhumanly strong (on the path down to Phongmey, we passed a man with skinny legs wearing flip flops carrying on his back a metal desk all the way to Sakteng; another came up the trail with a refrigerator strapped to his back).   They do not wear the ghos and kiras mandated by the Bhutanese government as a sign of citizenship.  Instead, the men wear a red wool jacket cinched tight with a gho belt over which they often wear an animal skin poncho.  The women wear red and white striped wool dresses and the trademark Brokpa hat: a yak-hair beanie with five spidery that legs that draw the rain away from one's face (in one of the few truly touristy acts of my time here, I bought one of those hats).  In this region of Bhutan, the people Gelugpa Buddhists--they revere the Dalai Lama rather than Guru Rinpoche or Longchempa.

Brokpa women wearing their very cool hats and characteristic dresses

Man in a Brokpa jacket loading a yak

We woke in Merak to the surprise of high clouds and, blessedly, no rain.  Brick had gotten up before me and had found the elusive caretaker of the guesthouse, securing for us a real bed for that night with a Bukhari for $2 a night.  We encountered a group of three Bhutanese young men in a large tent in the schoolyard outside our classroom 'hotel,' one of whom owned a tour company in Thimphu.  He and his two friends were exploring the Merak-Sakteng area as tourist destination and invited us to join us at the village lakhang for the end of the annual community rimdro (a religious purification ritual).  Determined to see as much of Merak as possible, we told them we would meet them there later, and we spent the morning meandering aimlessly, completely enchanted.

The Merak Lakhang

When we arrived at the lakhang it was lunchtime and the dogs knew it: they were lined up outside the community kitchen (all villages have a kitchen near the lakhang where food is made and served during festivals and other public events) waiting for leftovers.  

Dogs outside the kitchen hoping for lunch. Notice the traditional
Bhutanese roof: tiles of slate held in place with rocks.  One sees this
all over the country, even in the capital, Thimphu.

We visited the tiny old lakhang as the monks rested from their chanting and took some tea, noting the countless photos of the current Dalai Lama on the altar.  Nyengda, the owner of the tour company, came and got us so that we could join him and his friends Sonam and Thinley for lunch in the community kitchen in the building next to the lakhang.  As we watched a monk fashion torma, the sacred sculptures made of colored yak butter that decorate the altars of all lakhangs, we were given enormous momos that had been fried in a vat of salty yak butter with a side of ezzay, the fiery chile "salad" that accompanies almost all meals in Bhutan.  The ezzay was so salty neither Brick nor myself could eat more than a few bites.  This did not deter the dogs: after all the humans had eaten, the scraps were put into a trough outside the lakhang where the dogs had a field day.

Dogs at the trough. Note almost all of them are Tibetan Mastiffs mixed with
something else, except that cute little tan puppy wedging himself between two others.

Nyengda had arranged to film a performance of a traditional dance which wasn't normally done during the summer, but the dancers obliged so he could film them for his promotional materials.  Vigorous and athletic, it looked to me to be a dance about the Megoi, but we were told that it was the Iron Bridge Dance (the Bhutanese have a real fascination for bridges which makes sense in a country with so many rivers to cross) about a spirit who threatens to sabotage the construction of a bridge, but a powerful lama stops him (or something like that).   The rain had begun long before, so the dancers were stamping and spinning in huge muddy puddles, splashing their audience and each other.  Best of all, a young boy in pink overalls stood behind the dancers and accurately mimicked every step, hand gesture, and facial expression of the middle dancer; the boy's level of concentration, accuracy and sheer joy was more engaging than the dance itself. 

Iron Bridge Dance

Boy imitating the central dancer

Merak Brokpas watching under protection from the rain

After the performance, Brick and wandered down to the school where local students home from boarding school and college were practicing traditional Bhutanese dances for a cultural program they were planning to put on for their parents the next night.  We passed a woman washing saag (greens) in a public tap and bought some from her, and some potatoes from one of the two shops in Merak for our dinner.  The shop was dark, lighted by one dirty window, and was recognizable as a store only because of the huge pile of Druk 11000 bottles stacked outside.  Both shops sold the same items: Wai Wai noodles, incense, crackers, toothpaste, mango juice and beer--the basics.  Everything else is grown or made in Merak: their clothes, saddles, ropes, furniture (there is almost none), cheese, butter.

After a surprisingly satisfying meal of Wai Wai noodles augmented by the potatoes and greens we had bought, Brick and I sat by our Bukhari as night fell.  We would be leaving early in the morning with Nyengda, Sonam and Thinley for Sakteng.  They had hired horses to carry their gear; we decided it was a good idea and so hired a horse of our own to carry my pack in which Brick would put the heavy items from his pack.  Though the 9 hour hike to Sakteng would take us over Nyuksangla at 14,ooo feet, I was sanguine about hiking without a pack, rain or shine.  But I was sorry to have say goodbye to Merak.

Anomalous tan puppy in Merak trying to stay dry.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation: Phongmey to Merak, Day 1

As every student's speech in Bhutan begins with a quotation (or a "thought for the day") which has absolutely no relevance to their speech, here is an introductory quotation for this posting:

"Tourists don't know where they've been. Travelers don't know where they are going." --Paul Theroux

But this is relevant.

When my friend Brick Root and I began talking about spending our abridged summer break in eastern Bhutan, I had an inchoate notion about where we might go. I'd heard it was wet, it was remote, it was too far, it was rife with hideous leeches and, most compelling, it was "the real Bhutan."  

Punakha is somewhat derisively referred to as "the city" by my eastern compatriots. There are paved roads; a hospital; restaurants; and, most coveted of all, internet access. But to those from the west, Punakha is hardly a city. It has all those things, for sure, but it is still a large village surrounded by rice paddies where cows sleep in the streets and chickens come in one's front door. That doesn't happen in New York. Not often, anyway.

Thus, the thought of somewhere even further removed from what we've come to call civilization was very appealing, and Brick and I decided we would head east after our retreat in Bumthang and go as far as time and weather and roads (which are often blocked by landslides and flash floods) would permit.

The dzonkhag of Tashigang is the farthest east one can get and still be in Bhutan; it shares a border with Arunchal Pradesh, now part of India but not too long ago a kingdom in its own right that was traditionally considered by China to be "Southern Tibet." Indeed, the sixth Dalai Lama was born in Tawang, the area just on the other side of the of the Merak-Sakteng Wildlife Sanctuary. This preserve was established in 2003 to maintain wildlife and botanical diversity, but also to protect the habitat of the Migoi, better known in the west as the Abominable Snowman. Really. It was at first opened to tourists but then closed almost immediately. It has just recently been reopened for tourism, so very few westerners have been there. This was where we decided to go.

After a two-day taxi ride from Bumthang through Mongar and into Tashigang (for western travelers, taxis are an affordable form of transportation but they are too expensive for most Bhutanese who take the crammed, cheap buses I wrote about in my Phobjika entry), we rode the last leg of the long journey without incident, over mountain passes that were blanketed in impenetrable mist, along pitted, tooth-rattling roads, and into the city of Tashigang. Tashigang is the most populous of all the dzongkhags in Bhutan, which seems counter-intuitive since Punakha and Thimphu, the capital, are both in western Bhutan. It didn't appear to be populous: we walked around the entire town in about fifteen minutes. Apparently, most of the population is in the villages which are larger than those of the rest of Bhutan, and Sherubtse College, the oldest college in the country, is there as well, adding to the state's numbers. After a night at the KC Hotel, highly recommended by our eastern BCF colleagues, we headed for Phongmey, a tiny town virtually at the end of the west-east road. BCF teacher Becky Story is a teacher there, and she kindly offered us her "mouldy hut", as she calls it, for the nights before and after our trip into the Merak-Sakteng reserve.

We arrived there in a driving rain that threatened to cut off access to the town. When it rains in Phongmey, the road, which goes right through a river (not over it), is flooded, in which case one has to climb into a metal cage suspended on a cable and pull oneself hand-over-hand from one side of a very steep gorge cut by the torrential river to the other. I was secretly hoping we would have to do this, but, alas, the road was navigable, though just barely.

If you look very carefully, hanging over the river--which is in the middle of the road--is the cable car
(it is painted yellow).

A car crossing the river in the road from Phongmey

DAY 1: From Phongmey to Merak, July 5

When we woke in Becky's sodden concrete-block house, it was still raining. Hard. Through the local high school Vice Principal, we had managed to arrange to have a high school student, whose brother lived in Merak, guide us. Sangay Tshering, 15, arrived at 6:30 am, an hour earlier than we'd planned, dressed in flip-flops, track pants, and a thin sweatshirt, carrying a small bookbag. I sheepishly crammed my fancy backpack with layers of fleece, a sleeping bag and pad, some Wai Wai noodles (ramen) and Oreos, extra water, toiletries, and an umbrella, all of which, when compared with Sangay's spartan accoutrements, made me feel like I was wearing a diamond tiara to a mud wrestling competition.

I admit I was reluctant to embark on this crazy adventure: it was pouring; I am sensitive to altitude and on day two we would be hiking from 3000 feet to 14,000 feet in one day; there was no map (maps are uncommon in Bhutan); and our guide was a bashful 15 year old I'd never met who spoke only a few words of English. But what the heck, you only live once.

So we went.

Almost immediately, the trail--actually, a dirt footpath made by cow-herders and farmers to avoid walking on the rutted, rock-strewn unpaved roads--became vertical. In the driving rain, the path was like potter's slip, covering our boots and making our footing unreliable. Sangay marched confidently up in his flip flops as though he were on concrete, stopping every once in a while so we could catch up (we came to covet his flip-flops: he easily and frequently stopped and washed off the mud, and wet flip flops dry almost instantly. Hiking boots don't).

The path crossed the road every now again, and after about a half hour of steady climbing, I heard a tractor coming up the road. Tractors in Bhutan aren't like tractors in the States. They are actually motors with a seat to which one can attach a trailer for carrying goods or people, or a roto-tiller, which is what they are most commonly used for. At the wheel was a jolly, bearded farmer and in the attached trailer was his young daughter; both were going up the mountain to check on his workers in the fields. Neither seemed a bit affected by the rain or by the horrific condition of the road. He gestured to us to hop in, so we did, and what ensued was a hilarious butt-bruising, slurry-soaked trip that nearly catapulted each of us off into the road. We had to get out twice to push the tractor out of the mud, but we eventually made it to his farm. He told Sangay in Sharchop (easterners do not speak Dzongkha) that we were invited in for tea, but we demurred, eager to keep the momentum going. We bid him a warm and appreciative farewell.

We hiked up and up, banked by orchids and rhododendrons, plucking leeches off one another, my boots full of water. After three hours, soaked to the skin, hungry and tired, we came to Kharbaling, the first village we'd encountered which is, according to trekking websites (hikers beware!), the site of a guesthouse and a recommended overnight stop. Fog and mist drifted eerily, obscuring any view, making it impossible to see if there were even any houses.

Karbaling

In Karbaling.  Sangay had changed into his gho to make hiking in mud easier.

Sangay assured us there was a big house and we could ask there for shelter while we ate lunch. We literally stumbled across a deserted one room stone house where a skinny cat yowled and ran. Sangay found the 'big house', but it too was deserted. The guesthouse was ramshackle and locked tight; its roofed porch, where we decided to huddle, was covered in animal dung. We scraped away enough pooh to sit and have a lunch of hard boiled eggs, carrots and cheese and crackers. And then we pushed on. Up and up.

The rain began to abate, thank the gods, and the path became rockier and wider. A dilapidated wooden gate marked some sort of dividing line between the upward hike and a blessedly less steep trail.

Mysterious gate

 Huddled under a tree, drinking cheap Bhutanese rum was a man with a rainbow umbrella and a pack horse. Sangay addressed him in Sharchop but the man was a mute; he grinned and gestured and somehow Sangay understood everything he 'said.' He and his horse became part of our bedraggled convoy and he and Sangay kept each other company all the way to Merak.

Our silent companion

Eventually, the trail wound around until it paralleled the sometimes wide river valley of the Dongme Chhu. Here, finally, we came across the official sign for the Merak-Sakteng Wildlife Sanctuary.

Brick at the "entrance" to the Sanctuary. I don't think very many people,
other than locals, have seen this sign.  It reads: "Welcome to
Sakteng Wildlife Sanctuary. Entering to (Migoe) Bigfoot Valley"

The trail paralleled the Dongme Chhu (or Damnongchhu) for many kilometers.

Beyond that point, the landscape changed and the hiking became more like walking and the rain stopped. Then, unaccountably, there by the riverside in what felt to us like the middle of nowhere, someone had painted stunning, detailed portraits of the Buddha, Guru Rinpoche and Chenrezig, the emanation of compassion. The paintings weren't quite completed; the staging the painter was using was still there, as were some of his tools. At the edge of the river, the painter had erected a rude shelter with a tarp and some branches, the floor strewn with juniper boughs (burned by Buddhists as offerings) and we sat under the tarp to appreciate his art. I would have been content to sit there for a long while; my back and shoulders were knotting up miserably and I couldn't adjust the pack to fit better--but Brick was anxious to get moving: the sun was beginning to sink behind the mountains, so we continued on.

Sangay insisted we were getting close to Merak, but in Bhutan "close" and other references to distance have little meaning, so we didn't give credence to his assurances. We came across a man in bright blue gumboots carrying an empty bamboo basket that most farmers use to carry everything from cattle feed to manure (carrying an empty basket is considered bad luck; maybe he had something in the bottom of it because after we met him, our luck improved markedly). He also joined our parade, chatting now and again with Sangay and the mute man with the horse and smiling at me and Brick in that warm, welcoming way Bhutanese smile.

Somehow, we came to a point where Sangay knew we were only 6 kilometers from Merak. As our shadows lengthened ominously and my back screamed in pain and my energy flagged, I asked the mute man if I could put my pack on his horse for the last leg of our trek. Sangay negotiated, and in the end, the man with the blue boots took my pack, affording me indescribable relief. The sun, hidden for the ten hours we'd been hiking, suddenly emerged from the mist, warming our soggy bones for the first time in days.

We entered a tiny village called Gangu, and off in the distance in a wide, treeless expanse hanging off the side of the mountain, we could see Merak.

The whole group (except Brick; he took the photo)
and a local at Gangu.

At this point, even Sangay and Brick admitted they were spent, but the promise of a place to rest and eat and sleep pushed us forward. We stopped at the first building we came to, a brand new community center built by the Swiss government just below the Gup's office and said goodbye to our friends.  I tried to give the man who carried my pack some money, but he shooed it away, bowed slightly, and disappeared. The man with the horse headed for home. We were hoping to ask the Gup (the local village leader) about how to get a bed in the government guesthouse we'd heard about, but the Gup was not in his office. A young man in the community center, a brash, serious college student home for summer break, assured us that the guesthouse caretaker was not available, so we'd have to find somewhere else to sleep. Bone-tired, we asked the young man where we would find the Principal of the local primary school. Since we are teachers, school administrators are a reliable source of information and assistance all over Bhutan, so we were relieved when the young man pointed to the archery range and said that the man in the black jacket was the Principal.

Entering Merak.  It is said that one of the stones on the
path into Merak is where Aum Jomo, the local deity,
stopped to rest and left the print of her vagina
on the rock.

The sun came out at the edge of Merak.

Brick went to talk to him as Sangay and I rested, and when he returned we had a place to sleep: the floor of a classroom.

First night's lodging.  Sangay went to stay with his brother.

 The Principal also told us that after we stashed our gear we should come to his house to get a water boiler so we could heat our noodles. When we got to his house, warmed by the fire in his Bukhari, essentially a wood stove vented through the ceiling, he took pity on us and had his wife and niece feed us eggs cooked in at least eight tablespoons of butter, saag, rice, tea, and, for Brick, a form of Batu, or meat soup with homemade noodles. We could barely keep our eyes open seated by the warm, dry fire with full bellies. It was splendid.

We went to sleep at 9:30 with a plan to spend the following day exploring Merak. Blessedly, as we nodded off, there was no sound of rain.

A train of pack horses from Tashigang entering Merak. All goods
have to be packed in except what can be grown or made in Merak.

Me and Brick.  Very wet.